All Good Things
A/N: This is a thanks to the SP fandom. You guys are the first people who embraced me, and I'm continually shocked by the level of support from you guys. I mean, I was bored and going through TVTropes one day, and happened upon the fact that the SP fanfic rec page is almost a complete list of my fics for this fandom. I felt beyond loved, and then slightly horrified as I realized I hadn't posted much for you guys recently. So, along with a promise to try and update a certain story I've been working on for a while, here's this. I hope you guys like it.
Warnings: Stan being a grunge-rock baby, Star Trek nerdisms, light drug use and boys, boys, boys.
Pairings: Stan/Kyle, although if you want you can see this more as them teetering between friendship and romance. Also heavy Stan/Wendy friendship.
Disclaimer: None of it (not the pop culture references, not the Star Trek merch, not the lyrics to any Alice in Chains song) is mine.
–and laying in the back of his car (his baby) in this kind of weather isn't exactly Stan's idea of a good time. He's got music playing, so you can just barely hear it, and he's mouthing the words without actually saying them. The only sound that's really invasive in any way is the steady downpour of rain outside.
And, that rain, it's just going tap, tap, tap on the top of his car, maybe almost sounding like gunshots, if Stan had any idea what gunshots really sounded like.
In his head he's recounting exactly what happened a few hours earlier. Because, God knows, this isn't the usual. The usual is something more like half-baked and watching a marathon of that show about that Valium-addicted doctor, what was that called again? He'll have to, y'know, look that up online or something later on, if he remembers.
He's not doing that, though, because his roommate–
(some guy who's a study in neutrals and slacks, who goes to college and out drinking with friends and other inane things like that)
–got fed up about something stupid. Like paying rent, or whatever. Said that Stan, even if he was "in-between" jobs, still had to pay his part of it. The guy had used air-quotes and everything.
So, all right, maybe in-between jobs isn't the most apt way to describe Stan's employment situation. Maybe it's something more like he had gotten fired from his last job at the comic book store a month ago because of his 'increasingly rude attitude towards customers'.
To quote Cher Horowitz (which wasn't something he did often, but which was still necessary on occasion, Y-chromosome or no), as if.
It wasn't his fault that he had found the customers to be nerds. And weren't they supposed to not be offended by that anymore? Hadn't they reclaimed that word, like lesbians had 'dyke'? Or were nerds not that tightly knit of a community? Had to consider that, really, there weren't parades for them.
And, anyway (furthermore), was Stan supposed to ignore their scoffing inquiries about the Star Trek novels he always had on hand? No less than five–five!–of their kind had pointed out that the show was far superior and the canonical discrepancies between the shows and the novelizations just could not be overlooked.
Jesus, if Stan had known that he would get fired for the simple act of threatening to beat the shit out of one of them he probably wouldn't have taken the job in the first place. What was life without a few threats, after all?
At any rate, fact is, the whole phrase 'in-between jobs' sort of implies that he's looking for another one. But Stan still has a sort of bitter taste in his mouth from getting fired, and, besides, he isn't sure he wants to stay in the city anymore.
He has the distinct feeling, after all, while laying in the back of his car, still singing along without singing along, that some American Psycho-esque business man is going to knock on his car window and demand that he cease and desist all Genesisalbums (nothing pre-Duke, of course).
The only problem with the whole thing–the whole idea of leaving the city and going back to the town he escaped from over a year ago–is that it's an I-told-you-so waiting to happen.
It's leaving behind this place where he can be a reclusive nobody and going back to South Park, where everyone and their cousin (twice removed) knows his business.
The back of his car, it's filled with discarded things. CD cases and a half empty Kleenex box, the duffel bag that holds his clothes and few other worldly possessions, along with all the money to his name in the front pocket. The backseat is stained and the cup holders are sticky and everything smells stale and like maybe there's a half-eaten burger in the McDonald's bag stuffed under the passenger's seat.
In the glove compartment he's got weed and papers for joints if he really needs some. His cell phone is in his pocket and the keys are already in the ignition, so…
So.
Maybe he can stand an I-told-you-so or two, after all.
.
Before all this, before he spent a year and some months halfway across the country, before then–things were pretty good.
All right, so, Stan had been barely hanging onto a 2.0 GPA and was skipping every other class like he was entitled to be a rebel in the way that only someone who had been kicked off the football team could. But, really, things weren't bad.
He spent his days picking and choosing classes to go to and would spend lunches on the bleachers out by the track with a few of his friends. Which friends, exactly, changed from day to day, with the exception of the constant of Kyle.
Kyle, who Stan had known, roughly, forever, and who was the only one who didn't tease Stan mercilessly about his reading habits. Which might have, admittedly, had something to do with Kyle's secret obsession with B-horror movies and sci-fi tv shows of questionable budget. But that was neither here nor there.
The point was–things had been good.
Clyde might have stolen some of his French fries once and a while and Cartman might have been a pain in the ass more often than not–but at the end of the day Stan could feel reasonably comfortable knowing that he had it better than most. Knowing that Kyle would roll his eyes at Stan's penchant for being a decade too late for worshipping Kurt Cobain, but help him with his Calc homework anyway.
And maybe that was the problem: maybe you weren't supposed to know that you had it good.
Whatever the case, it was only a matter of time before it ended.
.
The first person Stan calls, as he puts his car into reverse and checks the rearview mirror, is Wendy.
She answers with a groggy, "H'lo?" as Stan remembers, too late (as always), the time difference that he's never gotten used to, and winces as he realizes that it's just a little after seven in the morning for her.
"Uh, hey," he says, and he says it cautiously. Whether that's because he's backing out of his parking space in front of what used to be the apartment building he was living in or because he's kind of scared of the wrath of the girl on the other end of the phone line is yet to be determined.
"Stan," Wendy says, "what the fuck." It's not a question, he knows this. He knows enough girl-speak to know this, more specifically, which is actually kind of scary. "I have to get up for work in a few hours. This better be important."
Stan can see her in his mind. She's probably sitting up in bed by now, finger-combing through her massive black hair that falls effortlessly in that Wendy sort of way. And she definitely looks less angry than she sounds, although that part might be wishful thinking. God, he misses her.
"I'm coming back," he replies, quickly, before she can add some sort of threat to the end of her statement.
"Oh." She says this softly and Stan knows she's smiling now. "Oh, Stan, really? That's, well–that's great, hon."
"Yeah." Stan eyes the road he's about to turn onto with apprehension. He drove all the way here in the first place, but that seems like so long ago. He was younger then, even if just by a bit. He feels less sure of himself now. "I was just–thinking, last night. And I realized that this place isn't for me. I dunno. I thought I'd call you, let you know."
"Oh, Stan," she repeats, "I'm glad you're coming back." And, oh fuck, she sounds like she's tearing up, probably smiling her little watery I'm-about-to-cry Wendy smile. Lord, but he cannot deal with people when they get this way. Still, there's more than a few reasons why she's the sole person he's kept in touch with all this time.
"So'm I." He's smiling for the first time in a while.
.
Sometimes when Stan would skip class he would spend it in the boys' bathroom by the art classes. It was the last bathroom anyone ever wanted to use, the only one that hadn't been remodeled like the others had a few years ago. He'd spend those fifty-four minutes reading his Star Trek novels until they were dog-eared and worn-out (but never any less wonderful).
He usually did this when he was skipping second or third hour exclusively for some reason or another. Hall monitors rarely checked the bathrooms, and even if they did it was usually for cigarette smoke or some incriminating thing like that. They couldn't very well get mad at someone for just being in a bathroom stall, after all.
Well, they could, but they never did–they probably didn't get paid enough to.
Anyway, the point was, that was why Stan was sitting in a bathroom stall (rather surreptitiously, he might add) when Kyle came in, covered in flecks of paint. Of course, Stan didn't see this, rather he heard the distinct voice of his best friend muttering about Cartman and paint brushes and brand new shirts and the sound of water running.
And, mostly, he thought nothing of getting up and opening the stall door. Honestly, Kyle hardly even looked surprised when he glanced up into the mirror above the sink and saw Stan there. He even said something, something that started with a Hey, Stan, like this whole situation was the most normal thing in the entire world.
Except, you know, it wasn't.
Stan was never even quite able to explain it to himself.
It wasn't that, when he looked at Kyle, he felt this completely random adoration for him all of a sudden. That had always been there, pulsating somewhere just below his veins, in some part of his body that he couldn't really name. No, the weird part wasn't that he wanted to kiss Kyle, it never had been.
The weird part was that he did it.
The weird part was that he strode across towards the redhead (like some sort of man on a mission), dropped his book–his old, treasured, favorite book–and put his hands up into Kyle's unruly, red hair and kissed his best friend in the empty boys' bathroom by the art classrooms.
And Kyle didn't fight it. His face was wet from where he'd been trying to get paint off of it, and he had been in the middle of talking, but he practically (and Stan hated the cliché, but it fit) melted into the kiss and it was just–well, Kyle tasted like nothing but spit and the toothpaste he'd used that morning, so it was just like any other kiss.
Except, again, it wasn't.
Which was what, Stan figured, was the main difference between kissing someone whom you liked and kissing someone whom you–
Well, not that it mattered.
Because Kyle ran out of the bathroom the second they broke apart, not even giving Stan a moment to collect himself.
And Stan stood there for what felt like hours, but what must have only been minutes, in that empty, quiet bathroom. He didn't even think to pick up his book, lying on the damp and disgusting floor.
He'd read it enough times to know how it ended.
.
Middle of the night now and Stan figures he'll have to stop driving soon. He's thought about that quite a few times without actually doing it, though, so who knows. Probably he can make it through another hour on nervous energy alone.
He's on the freeway and, for the most part, he only sees another pair of headlights every mile or so. No one's really going south, anyway, not at this time of night.
In the rearview mirror he sees his hair and god it looks so stupid.
Maybe if it was 1995 and he was living in Seattle, maybe then he'd look normal. Instead he just looks like he's trying too hard. If his mother ever lays her hands on him again he can kiss at least four inches goodbye, possibly more, and it might be for the best.
He wonders, absently, where his hat is. The blue one with the red puffball on top. He stopped wearing it years and years ago, but he'd always kept it around. He imagines it's still sitting in his room, collecting dust.
All the things Stan left behind in South Park–friends, family, possessions, hell, the entire town itself–he imagines everything covered in a fine layer of dust, just waiting for him to return.
And, he thinks, when he drives back into town it'll be like a huge gust of wind, blowing the dust off of everything. People looking around in awe. Everything looking brand new again. They'll all be so happy to see him.
That's what Stan imagines–what Stan knows is a whole different story.
.
When Stan was seven both he and Kyle begged their mothers to get them tennis shoes that lit up. Kyle's mother had been much more skeptical about the whole thing that Stan's, but in the end they'd managed to convince them both that they'd do anything–give up everything–just for those shoes, they swore (crossed their hearts and hoped to die).
They'd done everything together even then. So their mothers had teamed up, even if they didn't quite get along, and they'd all gone to the nearest mall and gotten the shoes.
They'd spent the rest of the night running around outside. Jumping and stomping their feet emphatically, just to see the lights flash in a way that was slightly reminiscent of the lights on top of a police car.
During the day they were less exciting, just a tiny, weak flash in the bright daylight.
But at night–at night they were a signal, almost a sort of calling card. They were no good if you wanted to play hide and seek, but they were kind of too old for that game, anyway. The shoes were the best, even if Cartman said they were gay. He was just jealous, was all.
Months later, when the batteries had worn out and they were just plain old shoes covered in dirt and salt stains, Stan and Kyle still wore them. Colored and wrote things on them with permanent markers and just plain old wore them out until they were almost falling apart and they had to get new ones.
Just because–that was the sort of thing best friends did.
.
It's almost a whole day later–or something like that–when Stan sits in the diner on the side of the highway. He supposes he looks like a dejected, lost young man. Mostly he supposes this because his waitress, a fortysomething who has the same smile that every other mother has, is doting on him like she wants to entice him to come home and try her homemade soup.
Every time he asks for a refill of his coffee she frowns ever so slightly, and he sees it but he doesn't care. He sits there reading one of his books, even though he knows what will happen next, or maybe because he knows what will happen next.
Background noise is: quiet conversations between the few other people in the place at a booth across the room, the faint sound of a radio from the kitchen and the click, click, click of his waitress's shoes as she walks around with nothing to do.
Stan kind of wishes he could stay here forever, reading his books and drinking this never-ending coffee–but he has things to do, even if he doesn't have to do them.
Later, he's on the hood of his car in the middle of fucking nowhere (or Ohio, he isn't sure which, or if there's even a difference) and looking up at the stars, joint in hand and head in the sky.
This seems to be a common occurrence in just about, well, absolutely everything.
Movies, books, television shows, songs. People are always looking up at the sky–especially at night time–for some sort of answer. And maybe that works for some people.
But for Stan it's just the sky and stars. He knows some of those stars form constellations and that all of them have been and will be around for so much longer than he will that it almost makes him question his own existence. Hell, he took astronomy in high school, and his teacher had practically been having an affair with the subject.
All Stan sees, though, is a vast expanse of dark blue (almost black) with intermittent pinpoints of light. He knows it's more than that, but he can't be bothered to care.
There are no answers up there, no messages for him to find.
Unless, of course, the stars can find him a hotel with decent showers, clean rooms and a reasonable price tag, but he kind of doubts that.
.
The rest of senior year had seen Stan avoiding contact with just about everyone.
This was both easier and harder than it sounded.
Easier, because the kiss had happened at the end of May and there were, even if you rounded up (which no one did), only two weeks left in the year for seniors. Harder, because there were just over two hundred students in their entire high school and just over fifty in their graduating class.
Of course, there was the fact that he wasn't avoiding Wendy to be considered.
This made things easier, in that he could spend time with her in the library (where, most people thought, she seemed to live, no matter how impossible that really was) instead of spending time trying to hide from people. Because, as everyone knows, the best way to hide is to be out in the open in a place where no one expects you to be.
Wendy had, for much of their junior year, spent all her time in the library studying. Their senior year she spent her time there reading Cosmo. Feminist though she might have been that didn't mean that she wasn't body conscious. And, alright, the sex columns varied from interesting to downright hilarious, so the magazine had that going for it as well.
Anyway, Wendy was, as far as Stan knew, the only other person (besides Kyle, naturally) who knew about the kiss.
She didn't see the big deal. She often said things like, "I don't see the big deal." It bothered Stan greatly.
How could she not see that this was a life-ending, earth-shattering, other-verbing event?
"Nothing will ever be the same," was what Stan would moan, lying across the table they were sitting at.
The librarian didn't like them very much.
Wendy would ask, "Why not?" She'd turn a page in her magazine and glare at Kate Winslet's stupid, perfect butt, and say, "I don't see why you can't just talk to him about it."
Stan loved Wendy, really he did. They didn't work well as a couple, but their friendship was nearly as strong as the one he had with Kyle (if that wasn't null and void, of course). But she simply did not understand how males worked.
Stan would keep his emotions inside and bottled up until he murdered several people and maybe some animals, goddammit, and he would like it that way.
Well, alright, he wasn't that stubborn, but the fact was–
"I can't just talk to him about it," he'd explained to her one day. "If I talk to him about it…well what if it happens again?"
"Maybe he won't mind it," had been Wendy's answer, her clear blue eyes bright beneath raised eyebrows. "Maybe he isn't as upset by it as you think. Maybe he wants it to happen again."
"But, Wendy," Stan had stared at the table before finishing in a quiet voice, "that's what I'm scared of."
.
He's in one of those nameless states. The sort that you always forget about because they're so boring. Wyoming, maybe. No idea how many days it's been now, but something in his gut tells him three. Not that he trusts his gut, but it's the best guess that he has.
It's hot here, but not in the way the city was, with the sun refracting off of buildings and the air tainted with the smell of garbage from dumpsters behind stores and restaurants. Here the humidity doesn't sit with you very long before it's blown away by a breeze from down the street, although that comes with a cloud of dust in your face.
Doesn't really matter, though, he's only stopping for gas.
Of course, that changes once he goes inside the gas station and sees real food. Pre-packaged and with brand names bright and screaming out at him from every part of the store. Fuck, but it's heaven in there.
Three ninety-nine cent slurpees, two Hostess cupcakes and a bag of Doritos later and he's sitting in the front seat of his car wishing it had air conditioning, but feeling sated nonetheless.
That's when he sees the payphone.
The whole thing is rather inconspicuous, just there next to the gas station, looking like it's almost part of nature. It is a payphone, after all. Who the hell uses payphones besides kidnappers and other various creeps who are evading the law?
Well, Stan, for one.
Not that he ever has before, but there has to be some reason that he finds himself drawn to it, that he leaves the relative coolness of his car to walk over to it. There's a phone book inside for the greater whatever area, but it's been vandalized to the point where Stan doubts it's useful anymore. Not that it matters to him–he knows the Broflovski's home phone number by heart.
He dials it, making sure to add the area code, and there's no ringing, just: Hello, the number you have dialed cannot be reached. Please hang up or try again. Hello, the number–
Well, who the fuck has a landline anymore, right? And–he really needs to think things through–what would he have said if someone had picked up? The automated message is probably for the best.
Still, Stan hangs up the phone angrily, as if it's at fault for the whole thing.
Walks over to his car and kicks the side, where it's rusting, then immediately feels bad. It's his baby, after all.
Gets in his car and sits there for an hour feeling like the world is closing in on all sides, like he never wants to move from that spot, because he feels safe there for some reason.
Then, puts his car into drive and continues on with a full tank of gas.
.
The thing that Wendy never understood (well, one of the things among others) was why Stan even went to graduation.
For one thing, he'd made a point to not talk to anyone else in their graduating class for what basically accounted for their last two weeks of school. For another, he hadn't even gone to rehearsal for the damn thing. And, to top it all off, his parents didn't even really care about whether he went to it or not.
He had, she thought, every reason not to come, and yet they ended up standing in at the edge of the gymnasium next to each other making scathing comments and talking about just exactly how drunk they both wished they had gotten before coming to the thing.
Wendy would say something like, "Did you see Rebecca?"
And Stan would reply with, "I saw her boobs, if that's what you mean."
The only person who approached them was Kenny, and that was only because he was the sole person in their group that had the ability to be perfectly likeable no matter what. And, besides, he only did so to tell them about the party he was having later. The thing about South Park was that when he said, "Everyone is coming," he meant it.
Stan and Wendy exchanged a look and very quickly knew that they would be spending the night wasted in Stan's basement watching 80s movies.
Which was, you know, sort of what happened.
Up until Kyle showed up, that was.
.
Stan knows he's driving too slowly. He knows that he's taking way longer to get home than he needs to. He knows that he's stopping too much and calling Wendy too much and sitting in parking lots outside of gas stations too much. He knows that he's stalling, that he has nowhere else to go, but that that doesn't mean that he wants to go where he has to.
He knows all of this in that sort of stupid, awful, intangible, things-you-know-but-don't-want-to-think-about way.
He knows all of this in the same way that he knows that he's spent the last year of his life being an idiot, running away from things that he has no real reason to run away from.
It's not even that he doesn't care, either.
It's just that–
.
Kyle showed up and Wendy was asleep on the couch and Anthony Michael Hall was stuck under a glass coffee table.
Their conversation went something like:
"I don't want to talk about this." Stan, of course.
"Well, neither do I." Kyle had scoffed and leaned against the wall by the stairs. Stan's basement was unfinished so it was all concrete and wood and exposed electrical work. "You think I'm dying to discuss this shit, Stan? 'Cause I'm, uh, really not. You're not the only one avoiding people, man."
"Oh." Stan had kind of been under the impression that he was just really good at avoiding people. So, there went that.
"Yeah, oh." Kyle had done some sort of hand gesture that Stan wasn't able to decipher. It had sort of looked like he was trying to search through the air for something to say. "I–one second I'm getting paint off my face and the next you're. I just. I'm sorry I ran away, but what was I supposed to do, y'know?"
Stan had been like, "No, you don't understand, Kyle." Had been like, "I don't want it to be like this."
And it had been like that. Kyle looking nervous and seeming unable to look Stan in the eyes. Both of them having trouble with finding the right words, when that had never been a problem before. Maybe they had both been wrong for avoiding one another, but they had both been right in knowing that it would be like that.
"Oh." This time it had been Kyle saying it, choking it out more like. Stan almost felt bad, but best friend or not almost was the best he could do. "Right. Well. I don't either. I never said I did."
"Yeah, and I'm leaving anyway." Stan had decided this on the spot. Must have said it convincingly enough, though, because that was the first time that night (the first time in weeks) that Kyle had really looked at him. Even if it was with a heavy dose of surprise, it was something. "I can't breathe here anymore."
.
–he had meant what he'd said to Kyle back then in his basement.
The problem was, of course, that once he got enough breathing room he found that the air was almost exactly the same in the city. That it was just as suffocating, only in different ways. He'd found, just like every other young person, that freedom was as confining as any imprisonment you could think of.
He'd hated it. Sitting in the apartment and going to his job and having to pretend he liked people who knew nothing about him. Avoiding calls from his mother even though he wanted to hear her say everything was going to be alright. Having nothing, absolutely nothing, to fall back on. It was probably supposed to be exhilarating but–he'd hated it.
It was all very typical and, Stan, he knows this in the same way that he knows everything else he knows (and, admittedly, he doesn't know very much).
He thinks about all this on the freeway at midnight. He's already missed the exit that would lead him to his hometown, drove past that maybe forty-five minutes ago and fuck if he knows where he is now.
Stan thinks–as he tries to get the radio to work because he's so sick of every CD that he owns–that he's too much of a coward for his own good. Like, fuck that whole "courage isn't the absence of fear" bullshit. Whatever the fuck that even means. Nah, it's not because he's been running away from things, that's not what makes him a coward.
It's that the things he's been running away from this past year, he's not scared of them. He just doesn't want to deal with it all. He'd lied and said he wanted to leave because he thought he could make something of himself in the city in ways that he couldn't in a small town like South Park.
But once there all he'd ever done was get high or drunk or both. He'd read the same books over and over and over again to the point where he remembered entire passages and would whisper them to himself when he couldn't fall asleep. He'd gotten a job with no intention of ever getting promoted or using the money he earned towards anything that could help in life.
He'd chosen to become stagnant, and so that was why, at this point, even going backwards is a better alternative.
.
His parents had been, un-surprisingly, supportive. This had much to do with the fact that Shelley, his older sister, was already away at college. With Stan's grades the way they were it wasn't likely that he would have been able to get into anything besides a community college, and so his basic argument for moving so far away had been that he'd be out of the house–and, in the end, they'd even given him money, which felt oddly like they were paying him to leave.
Whatever the case, it had led to him standing in his driveway in late June, staring down at his box of CDs and DVDs, having a sort of realization moment. Something like, well, fuck, he was really doing this, wasn't he?
In South Park even when it was nearing the middle of summer you needed a jacket, and he'd recognized Kyle instantly just out of the corner of his eye by the familiar orange shade of it.
They hadn't said anything to each other. Stan hadn't even really looked at Kyle. He'd just picked up the box and got in the car, putting the box on the passenger's seat.
Stan often thought back on this specific memory. Tried to remember how he felt. Not just the words, he knew those. Knew: nervous awful relieved broken scared happy ridiculous self-assured skeptical unsure lonely independent. He knew he felt all of those as he pulled out of the driveway and down the street, until Kyle wasn't even something he could see anymore, just a person that he'd once–whatever.
Stan knew that the bad feelings sort of faded into the distance along with Kyle, until finally he was left only with the feeling that he was completely sure that leaving it all behind was exactly what he wanted.
But he could never quite feel that ever again.
.
He pulls up in his driveway and thinks that, if this was a movie, the sun would be just about to rise. Instead it's already in the sky, surrounded by lazy clouds and murkey pastel colors.
The car door slams behind him and he shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket and looks up at his house, which looks the same as it did the day he left, but for a few minor differences here and there–green paint peeling by the window panes and a crack in the sidewalk pavement. The sorts of things that he only notices because he grew up in the place, knows every inch of it whether he wants to or not.
"So," goes Kyle, who's sitting on the front steps. And Stan saw him, of course he did, saw the orange of his jacket from down the street, and didn't even blink. The whole thing–the two of them, here, now–just feels inevitable.
"Wendy called you, then?" Stan asks, trying to look everywhere but at the redhead. For all the growing up he's supposed to have done in the past year he still feels all of fifteen.
"Sort of." Stan looks up in time to see Kyle shrug–he looks exactly the same as he did a year ago, much like the whole town does. "Clyde told me. And Token told him, and he heard from Wendy."
"Right," Stan nods. "I forgot how fast shit gets around in this town." Not like it was hard to forget, seeing how nothing ever got around in the city. Good fucking lord, he already wants to go back.
"I don't know why I'm here," Kyle says after a long silence (that probably, actually, lasts all of about thirty seconds).
Stan kicks at the ground and purses his lips. It's awkward, and he has to think about it for a minute, but he finally sits next to Kyle on the steps with a sigh.
"Neither do I." He's hunched over, staring across the street at nothing in particular. "I don't even know why I left, honestly. I thought I wanted to, and then." He shrugs. "I thought, like, maybe there's something out there, y'know? Something I'd never see if I didn't–whatever. But it was just."
He looks at Kyle, meaning to glance over, but, instead, finding that the redhead is actually looking at him, and, in fact, paying attention.
"It was just...the same as here." His hair is falling into his eyes, and usually he'd push it back without even thinking about, but he doesn't even bother with it right now. "I mean, it was bigger, of course." Kyle smiles, lightly, at that. "But it had everything I hate there. And none of the things I like."
"That's, well," Kyle trails off, humming a bit. Then he punches Stan squarely in the shoulder–hard.
"Jesus! What was that for?" Stan cries, leaning away and hissing, and seriously, that's going to bruise, because Kyle's got more upper-arm strength than should rightly be allowed.
Kyle doesn't answer, though, doesn't say anything at all. Just moves closer, reaches out and grabs Stan's hand, interlacing their fingers. It's nothing more than that, just the tiniest bit of contact, and it almost feels gross, because Stan's hand is sweaty and Kyle's hand is freezing to the touch, but.
The snow never seems to melt here, in this tiny little town that no one leaves. It covers everything, an extra layer that most other places are missing. It's cold, and it's dirty, but it's theirs.
He grips Kyle's hand just a bit tighter, and he can't even imagine why he ever let go in the first place.
It's theirs.
.
.
.